Kissed a Sad Goodbye

reappeared, cradling a mug. He lifted a brow as he sat down beside her and transferred the mug to her hands. “Tea bags? What heresy.”
    “Only for emergencies.” Teresa attempted a smile, but the tremble in her lip threatened to betray her. She sipped gratefully at the tea, even though it was too hot and too sweet.
    “Then I’d say this qualifies.”
    She glanced at him. “I should have known yesterday morning, when she didn’t show up for breakfast with Sir Peter. Annabelle would never have missed that meeting without letting us know. I should have realized—”
    “Don’t torment yourself over it, Teresa. Nothing you could have imagined would have helped Annabelle. She was already dead.”
    “They’re sure?”
    “As sure as the police are likely to admit about anything.”
    “But you knew, didn’t you? Jo said you went to the police, that was how they identified... her body. You knew because you were closer to her....” She touched his arm in a gesture more familiar than she could have imagined an hour ago.
    He stood abruptly. “I don’t believe that. It was logic, that’s all. I knew what you knew—that she’d never have missed that meeting, not unless... And I knew she hadn’t come home.”
    “But you were together—”
    “Not the whole evening.” Moving restlessly to the balcony door, he looked out. “After Jo’s party she asked me to meet her later at the Ferry House. But she never came.”
    “But...” Teresa stared at his back. What he was telling her didn’t make sense, but she didn’t feel she could push him. “The police... did they say how...”
    Reg shook his head. “No. Didn’t they tell Jo?”
    Teresa hesitated. This must be horribly difficult for him, she knew, but surely he’d thought of nothing else, and perhaps she could set his mind at rest. “Only that they didn’t believe she’d been... you know... assaulted.”
    “And that’s supposed to make it more acceptable?” His tone was bitter. “Along the lines of ‘she led a full life’?” Seeming to sense her shock, he turned towards her, shrugging in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds horrible, but just now... nothing seems any consolation. She’s gone and—” He turned away for a moment, then spun round and came back to the sofa. Sitting on its edge so that he could see her face, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t mind me. I’m just feeling bloody.” He smiled and released her hand. “I went to see William this morning.”
    With horror Teresa realized she’d not even thought of William, had not thought of anyone’s grief other than her own, until Reg had appeared at her door. “How was he?”
    “Shocked. We talked a little.”
    “About Annabelle?”
    Reg turned her empty mug carefully on its coaster. “And the business. He’s asked me to look after things for a bit. But I can’t manage without your help. Things are going to be difficult enough as it is.”
    A jolt of alarm shot through her and she sat upright. “You didn’t tell him what we meant to propose to Sir Peter?”
    “Of course not. But we’ll not be able to keep Hammond’s out of the red for much longer without taking some sort of action—”
    The phone rang, startling them both. Teresa stared at it as if a serpent had appeared without warning on her coffee table.
    “Hadn’t you better answer?” said Reg.
    She lifted the phone slowly and pushed the talk button. “Hullo?”
    She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes. Right. Half an hour.” She clicked off and looked at Reg. “It was the police. They want me to meet them at Hammond’s.”
     
    LEWIS AND THE THREE OTHER REMAINING children sat on the cold lino in the hall of the village’s Women’s Institute. The two girls were thin and plain and wore spectacles, and ; fat Bob Thomkins had blubbed so much that his face had come out all splotches.
    The adults had come in one or two at a time, walking among the children as if choosing from damaged groceries. They’d taken the smallest and prettiest children first, often separating siblings who had pleaded to stay together. A kind-looking lady in a flowered dress had chosen Simon Goss, shaking her head regretfully when the little boy had clung to Lewis’s hand and cried. So sorry, she’d said, she could only take the one, and she’d a son the same age as Simon.
    Lewis had known hunger often enough, and grief, when his baby sister, Annie, had died of the smallpox—but he had